All of the above.
Martin has a SON.
You heard it right, lady readers. A bloody 8 year old bouncy baby boy with bloody blond ringlets, a checked shirt and a bloody skateboard. His name is Jake. I haven't been this upset since Tim had me sectioned.
I'm writing this now because It's taken me this long to sober up. I tried to write a blog post yesterday but was so upset I had to get drunk immediately.
It all started innocently enough. He came to pick me up at my northlondonflat at 6.30 on Valentines Day. It seemed a little early, but I assumed he wanted to get me drunk before bowling, so went along without question. Little did I know it was in order to coincide with his EX WIFE dropping off the little urchin at the bowling alley. We'd barely arrived when he said "Wait a minute Posie," terribly casually, as if he had just dropped a pen or something or was going to fetch a bunch of flowers from the boot of his car. Then, in a flash, the boy appeared and was up in his arms, skateboard and all, being spun around. I assumed Martin was being attacked by a yob or something (do they still have yobs? Oh I don't know) so I clubbed the child with my handbag, which was really not the right thing to do at all. All the pieces fell into place as Martin was rubbing the bump on Jake's head, and as I turned to the car park I saw her (the ex) whizzing away on a bloody baby blue scooter, apparently to a date with her boyfriend. Martin's face contracted in a really bizarre way when he said this, and Jake just wouldn't stop crying, so I went inside for a touch up (touch eclat and a line) and waited for them.
Instead of wine we drank COCA COLA. Instead of the Indian Snacks Platter we had the American Diner Platter. So tasteless. Is this what happens when you have kids? Martin seemed so sophisticated and mature before, and there he was offering me pick and mix and helping Jake colour in! Jake's a little pest. He clearly has me marked out as some kind of fairy step-mother, he kept coming and nuzzling me and trying to 'involve me'. I thought step-kids were supposed to be really resentful of their parents' new lovers, and after clobbering him with my handbag I'd have expected him to have got the hint. Has nobody introduced this child to punk music, or whatever they have nowadays, emo?
For his birthday I'm going to buy him a copy of Catcher in the Rye, and if that doesn't work, some weed.
I will have Martin, with Jake...or without.